


A Silver Star

by Celebrimbor_Of_Eregion



Category: The Hobbit - J. R. R. Tolkien, The Lord of the Rings - J. R. R. Tolkien, The Silmarillion and other histories of Middle-Earth - J. R. R. Tolkien
Genre: Abusive Behavior, Curufin's A+ parenting, Disability, Disturbing Content, Fëanor is the best grandpa, I promise it will get way less angsty, Love, M/M, Romance, Slow Burn, Smithing, Suicidal Thoughts, Tyelpe being a resilient babe, a lot of swearing, others will appear later - Freeform, silvergifting in the past, smith culture, tough Nerdanel
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2018-07-18
Updated: 2018-10-28
Packaged: 2019-06-12 15:21:54
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 6
Words: 17,653
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/15342717
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Celebrimbor_Of_Eregion/pseuds/Celebrimbor_Of_Eregion
Summary: This was by far the worst point of Tyelpe's life. His loving boyfriend turned out to be a rather ugly creature, and his passion and craft is taken away from him. But Eru is not so cruel and sends him the kind stranger in a purple sweater.





	1. A Meeting

**Author's Note:**

> Dear readers of Mirkwood Suites! I have decided to write this spin off so that Tyelpe does not take over the entire fic:) But worry not - I have enough free time to update both. I love you all and thank you for your support.
> 
> Disclaimer: I do not own any of the characters.

Tyelpe sighed and, for Eru knows which time today, bit down the urge to cry. Ever since that horrible night, everything in his life had been dreadfully wrong, and he couldn’t even tell why he so clung to this life. No, he wouldn’t break. He was tough. Being Curufin’s son had always meant being tough - or burning down in the flames of shame and self-loathing.

Once again, he took a deep breath and tried to unzip his bag to take out the wallet and pay at the damned self-checkout machine. There were at least three people waiting for their turn, the bag zipper was stuck, his left hand alone couldn’t unjam it, and his right one hung limply, covered in bandages and probably paralyzed for life. Tyelpe felt a drop of sweat roll down the back of his neck. This was a dead end.

“Dude, what’s taking so long?” came an annoyed voice, and that was the last straw for Tyelpe. Large tears rolled out of his eyes, his shoulders started shaking, and he could not suppress the sobs that came out of his throat. That was what he was going to be from now on: an annoying obstacle for people going about their busy lives…

A warm hand landed on his shoulder. Tyelpe flinched.

“Hey,” the voice now sounded much softer, “what’s wrong?”

Gentle hands turned Tyelpe around, and he met the kind blue eyes of the stranger. He was probably older and also slightly taller than Tyelpe, with shoulder-length black hair, dressed in a lavender sweater and jeans. He threw a quick glance at Tyelpe’s injured hand but did not speak of it.

“I’m sorry I snapped,” the man spoke quietly. Meanwhile, the rest of the line dissolved as other checkout machines became freed. “Please let me help.”

Normally, Tyelpe’ pride would make him refuse, but he was so exhausted with today’s cleaning, doing the dishes, visiting the physical therapist, and doing the grocery shopping that he just welcomed the help of someone better equipped.

The man pulled the jammed fabric away and easily opened the bag.

“Thank you,” Tyelpe whispered.

He didn’t need any further help: opening the wallet and pulling out a few bills was easy enough. The man didn’t leave though.

“Do you need a ride?” he asked softly.

Tyelpe hesitated. He didn’t like to accept help, especially from strangers. But his hand was starting to ache, he needed his painkillers, and he already knew ubers took ages to arrive.

“If you don’t mind,” he replied shyly.

The man insisted on carrying most of Tyelpe’s groceries to the car, to which Tyelpe reluctantly agreed. He also loaded everything into the trunk himself and opened the car door for Tyelpe; he would have helped with the seatbelt, too, had Tyelpe let him. A painful thought came to Tyelpe’s mind: it could be like that all the time, someone caring for him, opening doors, scrubbing dishes, buttoning shirts. He wouldn’t have had to suffer through this alone if he let Sauron stay.

But that chapter was over. Sauron caused all this in the first place, and he was not who Tyelpe had thought he was. He was the man who hit him, questioned him angrily about something he had no claim to, pulled his hair, threw him into the whirlpool of shattering glass, and ruined his life. There was no coming back to their loving fairytale.

“Hey,” the stranger started, fastening his own seatbelt, “I forgot to ask your name.”

Tyelpe spent a few seconds thinking which of his names to give and decided to go with the easiest one.

“Tyelpe.”

The man looked him in the eye and smiled. “That’s the nicest name I’ve ever heard. I’m Ereinion. But you may call me Gil.”

These names sounded much nicer than his own, thought Tyelpe. He did not reply to the compliment, thinking it was a way to cheer him up.

“So which address?” Gil asked, bringing him out of his reverie.

“Oh,” Tyelpe smiled apologetically, “Sorry. 320 Dragonslayers.”

Gil typed in the address and started the car. Tyelpe closed his eyes: he had about fifteen minutes to think what he was going to do in his lonely, empty apartment. The place was cleaned (as far as that was possible), he had no commissions to do now that he was no longer a smith, and the exhibition he had dreamed about was now no closer than the stars. He could busy himself with figuring out how to make a living in his condition, for the savings were not endless, but so far he had no ideas but to become a burden on someone’s shoulders. Never in his life did he feel so helpless, not even when his father showed him the door. Back then, he had Fëanor who supported all his choices and did not dwell on his flaws. But he couldn’t call his grandfather now. How could he even speak this blasphemy, that he would never forge again because of some stupid accident? He had already disappointed father, he couldn’t lose Fëanor also. He would pretend everything is fine. He would have a little fish and drink his favorite cranberry juice and think of a way to survive by himself. He’s tough.

His hand, apparently, didn’t think so. It started with little sparks of pain in his joints, more annoying than torturing.  _ Well, that’s not fair _ , Tyelpe thought.  _ If you’re numb, go numb. Stop hurting me. _

This thing didn’t listen. Soon, it felt like a monstrous grip clutched his wrist, trying to detach his hand solely by squeezing it. The pain spread lower and lower till even his fingertips were rebelling against him. Tyelpe felt tears in the corners of his eyes. His house was soon; they were already on Laketown Avenue. He had to wait a little more.  _ Stay strong, Tyelpe _ .

Only Tyelpe couldn’t stay strong anymore. He just couldn’t, he couldn’t, he couldn’t. He bit down a growl, dreaded that he would bother Gil who was so kind to him. He felt his shoulders shake as he tried to suppress the sounds.

“Tyelpe?” Gil called, and one look at his passenger was enough. “What’s going on? Shall I call 911?”

Tyelpe badly wanted to scream “please run me over with your car and end this misery,” but he forced himself to be reasonable.

“I need to get to my place,” he managed to mutter. “I need… painkillers…”

Gil nodded and pressed the gas, hard. What a man, Tyelpe thought absent-mindedly as he was sailing through the high waves of pain.

Tyelpe didn’t remember anything: Gil dragging him inside, showing him to some neighbor and asking where he lived, looking through his bag for keys, taking off his coat, seating him on the couch, running around his apartment in a search for the painkillers, feeding him some… He might have passed out at some point. He doesn’t remember. He doesn’t care. He doesn’t want any of that.

***

Once more, Gil looked at the beautiful stranger, at the moment peacefully curled up on the couch. He’d had no idea such long hair even existed, and he’d never seen anyone with grey eyes before. It was all very unusual. Staying in a stranger’s apartment was also unusual, but Gil didn’t know what to do: walking out and leaving the apartment front door open with the owner sleeping inside did not seem entirely safe, but if he locked the door, Tyelpe wouldn’t have been able to go out. He thought about giving the keys to the neighbor whom he asked about Tyelpe’s apartment number, but she wasn’t in the hallway, and he didn’t know which apartment she lived in. Gil also quite liked looking at Tyelpe; he hoped it wasn’t creepy.

The place was very decent and didn’t look like one of the crappy student rentals that were so numerous in the town. The furniture was good quality, and there were some purple accents in the living room. Gil liked purple. His attention was also attracted by a few silver decorations: quite a large snowflake hanging from the ceiling, a few stars, a rose in a vase on the mantel, and a horseshoe on the door. Tyelpe or whoever did it for him had a great taste. The kitchen also did not disappoint Gil: it was spacious, with a convenient kitchen island and lots of tools and utensils that signified the owner did like to do some cooking. He loaded Tyelpe’s groceries into the fridge and put his own bags with perishables in there for now - who knows when Tyelpe wakes up. Next to the fridge, he spotted a cork board with some notes attached to it. Curious, Gil decided to look closer at those.

_ Exhibition coming Apr. 15!! You can do it Tyelperinquar!!!! _

First, that was a really long name. What were his parents thinking? Second, and Gil’s heart sank at the thought, he really hoped Tyelpe did not have to miss this exhibition because of the trouble with his hand.

_ Earrings for Anairë Mar. 29 (forged) _

_ Necklace Elendil Mar. 19 (cast) _

_ Taxes by end Mar. _

_ Bills same _

_ ALL _ _ MANTEL SHIT APR. 1 NO EXCUSES TYELPE!! _

Gil sighed. So Tyelpe was a jeweller of some kind, and had to get the necklace done today? It didn’t look possible. This was incredibly sad; no wonder Tyelpe started sobbing when Gil snapped at him in the line.

Then, there was a very nice drawing of Tyelpe on something that looked like a sketchbook page. Only Tyelpe was not hurt but smiling, and he held a small hammer in his right hand.

Apparently, nothing on this board was relevant any longer. Gil felt the urge to cry over this stranger’s broken life.

Suddenly, he heard a faint noise coming from the living room, so he rushed there. On the couch, Tyelpe tossed in his sleep a little and muttered something, and Gil came a bit closer to listen.

“Please,” Tyelpe said sleepily, “why are you so far? Come here.”

Surprised, Gil approached and sat on the edge of the couch. “Tyelpe?”

“Kiss me,” Tyelpe asked and smiled in his sleep.

Now, that definitely wasn’t meant for Gil.

“Tyelpe, make up,” he called and rubbed the other man’s shoulder. “You need to wake up.”

“You always so annoying, Sau,” Tyelpe giggled.

Gil looked around, confused, not knowing what to do; he was saved by a loud knock on the door. Tyelpe opened his eyes, startled, and his mouth hung open in disappointment.

“Tyelpe?” a female voice called from the door, and Gil recognized the neighbor who helped him locate Tyelpe’s apartment.

“Come in, Morwen,” Tyelpe replied, sitting up and rubbing his eyes one by one.

The woman entered the living room; her pale face was marked by genuine worry.

“Tyelpe, darling, I’m so sorry I didn’t help, I just wanted to get the kids from the car first, and then Turin fell and hit his head, and Nienor started crying, and I…”

“It’s alright, Morwen, really,” Tyelpe managed a nice smile. “I’m fine.”

“Good, good,” Morwen smiled back and looked at Gil. “Is that a new boyfriend? So soon, Tyelpe, I’m so glad!”

Tyelpe grew even paler than he initially was. Gil felt extremely embarrassed, so he hurried to resolve the confusion. 

“No, no, I’m just a stranger, really.” He sighed. “I should go.”

Morwen blinked fast. “I’m so sorry, guys. Tyelpe darling, I’m sorry for hurting you like this…”

The uncomfortable silence that followed was broken by loud thump, probably from somewhere in the hallway. Morwen flinched and ran to the door, yelling.

“For Manwë’s sake! Turin, whatever you dropped?! Sorry, gotta run, guys, Tyelpe, text me if you need anything!”

“Poor Morwen,” Tyelpe spoke absent-mindedly after she disappeared. “All alone with a troublemaker kid and a baby. I would never dare burden her with my problems.” He looked up at Gil. “And I’m sorry for burdening  _ you _ .”

“I didn’t mind.” Gil smiled. “I have to go now, but please, let me know if you need help. I can certainly drive you to the grocery store and back.”

“I thank you,” Tyelpe whispered and gave Gil the same pretty smile he had for Morwen.

Gil found note paper and a pen on the desk; he wrote down his number for Tyelpe and handed him the paper. There was no reason to linger any longer, so he got his groceries from the fridge, wished Tyelpe a good night, and promptly left the apartment in which he got into so strange a situation. For whatever reason, he really hoped Tyelpe would text him. But he felt that would never happen.

***

Tyelpe smiled, looking at the door Gil just left through. He then looked at the note with Gil’s number and held it to his heart. He curled up on the couch, buried his face in the pillow, and submitted himself to the worst heartbreaking, gut-wrenching weep he’d ever experienced.


	2. Hopes

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Tyelpe climbs out of the abyss with a smile. He only needs one hand for that.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Watch out for suicidal thoughts and rapey [Annatar] Sauron! And I promise, this is the last chapter that dark.

Tyelpe felt himself wake up after some sweet dream of silver angels with faint, lacy wings that tickled his face so nicely. He smiled and stretched out an arm to search for his lover; the bed was, however, empty and cold. Tyelpe opened his eyes, still smiling. It wasn’t even eight on his bedside clock.

“Oh, I can’t believe this sleepyhead is up so early.”

He got up, put on a robe for the slight chill in the air, and patted to the kitchen. Sauron wasn’t there.

“Okay,” Tyelpe smiled and checked the coffeemaker. It was empty. He frowned: it was their agreement that whoever gets up first sets the coffeemaker running, which was especially important for Tyelpe because ain’t no good day in the forge without the morning coffee (quote by Fëanor). Yes, it was usually Tyelpe who woke up first, but that was no excuse for breaking the agreement!

Still shaking his head in disapproval, Tyelpe walked to the fridge and examined its contents. Why was there so much lamb? Sauron was severely allergic to it, and so it had no business being anywhere near their apartment. Even Morwen never cooked lamb because she knew Sauron would have trouble breathing.

Tyelpe felt a chill creep up his back. It was too quiet in the apartment. It was too weird.

He walked to the bathroom, the only place where Sauron could be, but it was empty. And his towel wasn’t there. And there was only one toothbrush at the sink.

The realization came in like a punch in the gut; it pretty much felt like that. Tyelpe clutched his stomach with his left hand helplessly, bending almost in two; nausea hindered his breath, and there were bright circles and dots in front of his eyes. His darling, his dear boy, the only man he’d ever known was so fucking horrible to him.

Tyelpe fell down to the bathroom floor, his forehead touching the cold tile, and sobbed. _ Please, Manwë, Varda, Eru, whoever is up there, please end this, please just end this, have mercy on me.  _ Maybe he could fill the tub with cold water and just put his face in there? Would it work? Would he resist the urge to get his head out and breathe?

Oh, but there was a much better way. Painkillers. What did it say again, no more than six? What if he does twelve? Or just swallows whatever the fuck is left in the jar?

Tyelpe pulled himself up, not without difficulty, and hurried to the kitchen, to the sacred jar. He opened it  and looked at the pills that had relieved him so many times and could now provide the final relief. Was he ready now? He had returned the money for all unfulfilled commissions, officially closed the business, and even told the landlord he would not be renting the forge anymore. Fëanor would probably take care of any remaining bills…

Oh, shit.  _ Fëanor _ .

Tyelpe sighed and put the jar aside.  _ Think, Tyelpe, think _ . Yes, he was coming from a dynasty of smiths, and his grandfather wanted him to be one before he was even born. Fëanor was so happy when Tyelpe picked up the hammer, and he was growing happier with each work his grandson produced.

His first piece was the absolute worst, and father was so very honest about that. “Do you never listen to what I say, Tyelperinquar?” he spoke in that cold tone of his. “I thought we talked about polishing.”

Fëanor’s reaction was a whole other story. “Look, Nerdanel! Our boy is a smith now, just like us!”

Nerdanel took up the camera to immortalize his vague attempt at a bracelet: she probably knew he would later grow ashamed of it and mold it to cast something more decent.

For the love of Eru, he couldn’t do that to Fëanor. Or Nerdanel. Not even to his father who respected his blacksmith heritage so deeply he told his “trinketmaker” of a son to get the fuck out of the house.

Tyelpe took a deep breath. Fëanor’s voice rang in his head: “Tyelperinquar Eregion, get your shit together this instant, or so help me Aulë.” He gently squeezed his own wrist in support. Yes, he would call Fëanor. Like, now. Before he does anything stupid.

He walked to the bedroom, sat down on the bed, and picked up his phone from the bedside table. Eight. Fëanor might already be in the forge…

He called anyway, hopes leaving him fast with each dial tone, but then he finally heard the voice.

“Hey son, what’s up?”

Fëanor sounded so cheerful. Oh, Valar, he probably  _ was  _ at the forge, of course he was happy, happy in the way Tyelpe would never be again…

“Tyelpe? Are you crying, boy?”

He couldn’t hold it anymore.

“I’m sorry,” he wept, “I’m sorry, I’m sorry, please forgive me, please, please say you don’t hate me!”

“I definitely do not,” Fëanor replied firmly. “Now, young man, stop sobbing and tell me what happened. And if it’s about some dead body in your trunk, I have enough acid to dissolve it completely, and we will never speak of it again.”

Tyelpe almost smiled.

“I… there was an accident. My hand…”

“Is it missing?” Fëanor asked bluntly.

“It’s paralyzed.” He started sobbing again, his hand trembling so hard he was barely able to hold the phone. “It’s the worst, I hate it, I hate myself, I wanted to swallow all my painkillers at once, but then I thought I’d call you first…”

There was silence.

“Tyelpe, for fuck’s sake. Why would you want to kill yourself?! Are you nuts?!”

“You don’t understand!” Tyelpe screamed on top of his lungs. How could grandfather be so surprised he wanted to die? “I’m useless now, I gave up all my commissions, I’ll never FUCKING FORGE AGAIN!”

Fëanor sighed.

“Tyelperinquar Eregion.”

_ Oh, here it comes. _

“Get your shit together and stop spitting out nonsense. Get your ass up and do me a favor, okay?”

All Tyelpe could do was stand up and breathe out, “Okay.”

“Get your laptop and open youtube.”

Tyelpe had no strength to be surprised; he walked to the living room, sat in front of his laptop, started it, and went to youtube.

“Got it? Type in ‘Dior Eluchil.’ E-l-u-c-h-i-l.”

Tyelpe did that, too.

“Now, scroll way down his channel and take a look at his first two videos.”

Tyelpe stopped breathing, and, apparently, his heart stopped beating, too. The whole world stopped, for the first time in three weeks.

_ How to forge one-handed _

_ Casting one-handed _

Sweet Aulë and his hammer. This guy didn’t even  _ have  _ a right hand.

He clicked at the forging video. Dior Eluchil demonstrated a foot-operated press and started explaining how to use it. Tyelpe didn’t listen: his heart went on running again, and it beat so loudly he couldn’t hear a word. Large tears rolled down his cheeks. He had no idea. He hadn’t even thought it was possible.

Fëanor chuckled into the phone. “If that makes you feel better, I’ll have Dior personally explain it to you. Might be a bit of a ride, though. Also, he’s not the only one. I don’t know why you are wasting your time staring at pills when you could be training your legs and left hand.”

Tyelpe breathed out, loudly. “I love you.”

“You’ve never said it before,” Fëanor was surprised.

“You’ve never saved my fucking life before,” Tyelpe smiled, sincerely and almost happily.

“Now, Tyelperinquar,” Fëanor’s voice was serious, and Tyelpe knew it meant no good, “tell me, and you’d better be bloody honest, does that walking dumpster have to do with your ‘accident?’”

Oh, Varda and all her stars. Fëanor had warned him so many fucking times. How foolish he was for not listening!

“Yes, it was Sauron’s doing.”

Fëanor growled.

“Please don’t do anything,” Tyelpe begged. He still remembered how Fëanor almost got to jail for an assault against a grumpy neighbor who pretended he was going to hit little Tyelpe with the car for playing on the road.

“I’ll try not to kill him,” Fëanor agreed, surprisingly easily. “Did you tell the cops?”

“It  _ was  _ an accident, as far as the cops were concerned.”

“Ugh. So much for law and order. Is he gone from your apartment?”

“Yes.” And Tyelpe would never bring himself to mention how painful that was.

“Can you do me another favor, son?”

“Whatever it takes.”

“Good. Get that left hand of yours and collect the shit you need. Throw it into a pile or something. I’ll be there asap. And don’t argue. I won’t have you live alone with pain and whatever else you got, and with that bloody pile of crap lurking about somewhere.”

Honestly, that was a relief.

“Please. Please come get me.”

“I will. Now, you swear on Aulë’s hammer you won’t do any of that bullshit you were going to do. Pills, nooses, whatever else you should have outgrown by your fifteen.”

Tyelpe chuckled. “Sworn on Aulë’s hammer: no suicide.”

Never in his life had he broken the vow his father taught him early in his life, and he did not intend to break it now. He will live. He will work. He will forge the shit out of every bit of sterling silver that comes his way.

After saying goodbye to Fëanor, Tyelpe proceeded to collecting his things. He would probably return here at some point, so he definitely wouldn’t need everything. Some clothes, the simplest ones as he didn’t feel good enough to dress up, some silver jewelry so that he could feel alive again, the book he started ages ago and never got to finish, the laptop with the charger, the phone charger, too, pills, toiletries, water bottle, wallet…

A knock on the door startled him. It couldn’t have been Fëanor; the man was as quick as a forest fire, but he would need another twenty minutes to get here. Probably Morwen.

Tyelpe did his best to fasten his robe tighter to appear more decent; he walked to the door, unlocked it, and opened...

Hot lips crushed against his, and strong arms wrapped tightly against his frame. Tyelpe felt dizzy; he parted his lips and allowed to pin himself to the wall. His knees trembled. Oh, he wanted this, he wanted this so much!

Thoughts left his head completely as he was being kissed, and then… And then a pair of hands grabbed his hips, and he knew that movement, he remembered what it usually led to, and he breathed in loudly and opened his eyes wide.

“GET YOUR HANDS FUCKING AWAY FROM ME!”

Sauron smiled, pecked him on the lips, and indeed removed his hands.

“Tyelpe, my beloved,” he whispered, “my little silver snowflake, I missed you so much.”

Tyelpe trembled. Inside him burned wrath.

“You think you can just come up here and fondle me?!”

“Yes, I can,” still in a whisper. “You’re still mine, and I love you. And you love me.”

“I’m in pain,” Tyelpe hissed, “I can’t do basic things, this shit hurts, and it’s all your fault, and all you can think of is fucking me against the wall?!”

“I’m sorry, my love,” Sauron nodded. “But you seem to enjoy my touches.”

He growled. “Grow up, Sauron. You’ve damaged me for life. I’m not coming back to you.”

“Please, Tyelpe darling,” Sauron murmured, seizing Tyelpe again, “let’s try and fix this…” 

His lips found the sensitive spot behind Tyelpe’s ear, and Tyelpe started to melt. His knees were jelly. Sauron’s lips went down, down, down his neck and to his collarbones. Tyelpe’s breath quickened because, oh, Valar have mercy on his soul, was it good...

“Please, Sauron, stop,” he moaned as Sauron’s lips closed around his nipple. “You, ah, you need to stop…”

Sauron chuckled, tickling his chest. “I know you like it when I shut you up.”

“This is not, ah, this is not the right moment, damn it, Sauron!!” Tyelpe tried to push him away - and fount his left wrist trapped. 

Oh shit. His only useful hand was blocked now.

“Please, Sauron, stop,” he whispered, his voice unable to rise with how much fear he felt. He didn’t know how to show Sauron that this was  _ serious _ , this was not the right time to play their little games! But surely Sauron would see how scared his eyes were?

He didn’t. Tyelpe started panicking for real.  _ Please, Varda, help me. Please send me one of your stars.  _

The door flung open, letting colder air from the hallway inside. 

“Tyelpe?”

Tyelpe looked over Sauron’s shoulder, and his heart filled with relief. The star was sure beautiful today, and dressed in a purple sweater.

Sauron turned around, mad. “Who the fuck are you?”

Gil stood in the doorway, with his car keys in his right hand, calm yet ready to act. He didn’t answer; he looked at Tyelpe’s incredibly pale face and his terrified eyes.

“Are you okay, Tyelpe?” he asked firmly.

Tyelpe begged for his voice to come back; it didn’t, so he only shook his head. Then, Gil finally turned his attention to Sauron whose hand was still clutching Tyelpe’s wrist. “I ask that you leave him alone.”

“That’s my boyfriend, and you shut the fuck up and get out, whoever you are.”

Gil started to get mad too. “Can’t you see he’s fucking scared of you, idiot?!”

Sauron finally looked at Tyelpe’s face, into his eyes. He gasped and let go of the wrist. “Oh Eru, Tyelpe, are you scared of me?” he asked guiltily.

“I am,” Tyelpe croaked. “You were about to force me into something…”

“Oh no.” Now Sauron was pale, too. “I would never… oh Tyelpe, please, please forgive me…” He picked up Tyelpe’s hand again to cover his wrist with kisses, as if it could make up for his behavior.

“Don’t touch me,” Tyelpe hissed, and that was it for Gil: he grabbed Sauron by the collar and dragged him away from Tyelpe.

“What the fuck…” Sauron wrestled free and turned around harshly to look at Gil. “That’s our business, get lost, man! Who is he to you?”

Sauron’s eyes suddenly widened as a thought hit him, and he turned again to look Tyelpe in the eye. “You’re sleeping with him.”

Tyelpe wanted to scream, to hit, to kick, but his throat erupted with laughter. He was taking as many painkillers a day as was possible without doing a permanent damage to his internal organs. He needed at least half an hour to find a proper position in bed, just to lie down, because there was no way to put this fucking hand so that it didn’t hurt. He could barely undo his own pants. He was planning a suicide less than two hours ago. And Sauron thought he had been  _ having sex _ . That was funny, so funny, and he laughed.

Both Sauron and Gil stared at him, but the former was especially shocked.

“Sauron,” Tyelpe spoke, still chuckling. “Please, please find yourself someone who will put you in your place, and leave me alone, or I won’t need two hands to knock your teeth out.”

“Tyelpe,” Sauron begged again.

“Do as he says, you little shit!” a loud voice roared from the hallway, and all three of them peeked out to see the source. It was Fëanor, and he was armed with a gas can and a box of huge camping matches. Tyelpe smiled.

“Get the fuck out this instant, Sauron, before I set your nasty fucking ass on fire like I always wanted,” Fëanor threatened, and no one present doubted that he was ready to fulfill the threat.

Sauron did not take his chances; he ran past Fëanor and rushed down the stairs.

“Oh, good, the trash took itself out,” Fëanor breathed out, grinned, and put the gas can down. “Is your honor intact, Tyelpe?”

Tyelpe snorted and pulled the robe over his chest to cover it up. “This is the worst phrase you could possibly come up with.”

Fëanor finally looked at Gil. “I do not believe I had the pleasure of meeting the young man.”

Gil immediately extended his hand for him to shake. “Ereinion Gil-Galad.”

“Fëanor Curufinwë.”

“Father?” Gil asked, nodding at Tyelpe.

Fëanor chuckled, obviously pleased. “Actually, a generation above.”

“No way!” Gil gasped, his eyes widening. “What do you do?”

“I fucking forge,” Fëanor stated and finally entered the apartment. “So, you’re a friend? How about you help me pack Tyelpe’s shit? There’s probably a ton of it!”

“No!” protested Tyelpe as they walked to his bedroom. “I am only taking the most necessary…”

“There is at least five ounces of sterling silver,” Fëanor noted.

“That’s necessary,” Tyelpe pouted.

“Fine,” his grandfather nodded. “Now, go to the kitchen and make yourself some tea. You’ve had enough shit to deal with today, we got this.”

Gil added his friendly smile to this, and Tyelpe went to the kitchen, feeling strangely elevated.

***

“Now, Ereinion, you fold the clothes, and I do the silver.”

Gil got to work, noting how skilfully Fëanor wrapped Tyelpe’s jewelry in brown paper packaging and ziplock bags. The chains of necklaces went into drinking straws that he cut into smaller pieces.

“So,” Fëanor asked as they were busy loading things into a suitcase that the man fetched from a closet, “what’s between you and my grandson?”

Gil blinked and froze for a bit. “Nothing. I literally met him yesterday. I gave him a ride from the grocery store.”

“Well that’s nice of you,” Fëanor shrugged. “So dragging Tyelpe’s broccoli was so fun you decided to come back?”

Gil blushed: ‘dragging Tyelpe’s broccoli’ did not sound very innocent. And also Fëanor was right. “He was very distressed yesterday. Was so in pain he passed out. I gave him my number, but he wasn’t texting, so I decided to drop by and check.”

Fëanor stopped packing and stood up, rubbing his chin. “You see, I would totally give you both the number and the address, but you’ve just witnessed how lucky my Tyelpe is with men. It all started very nicely with Sauron, too.”

“Is he going far though?” Gil asked, a little anxious.

“Nope,” Fëanor smirked. “Like forty minutes away from here.” He went back to loading. “Just how many products for his hair does this boy have?!”

“As many as needed for keeping it gorgeous!” Tyelpe yelled from the kitchen.

Gil smiled. Tyelpe’s hair was indeed gorgeous. Maybe one day he’ll get to touch it. For now, he’ll be satisfied with touching the bottles and not hoping much, let alone claiming anything. Tyelpe was damaged enough.

He had some tea with Fëanor and Tyelpe in the kitchen, then they loaded the things into Fëanor’s truck and food into the freezer, and then Gil shut off the water supply to the apartment and unplugged all appliances. He was just finishing with the microwave cord that was trickily tucked behind the fridge when Tyelpe approached him. Fëanor was already starting the truck outside.

“Gil?”

“Yes, Tyelpe?”

Arms wrapped around his neck; Gil blushed deeply as never before. He didn’t know Tyelpe would be up for any touches after what happened today, so he was pleasantly mistaken.

“Thank you for saving me.”

“I hope I’ll see you again.”

“You will.”

That was all Gil needed to know.


	3. The Dragon

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Tyelpe's new life starts with a lot of talk.

Tyelpe opened his eyes and looked around with a slight feeling that everything around him was surreal. Closed blinds made it impossible to determine what time of the day it was. Small room, narrow bed, and no artificial waterfall in the corner… Oh, right, he moved to Fëanor’s place yesterday! Tyelpe smiled: surely the events that led to it were most upsetting, but he was glad to be back in the house where he had spent a good part of his life.

He looked around; his painkillers and a glass of water were on the nightstand, and some home clothes were put on top of his suitcase next to the bed: Fëanor was caring and thoughtful as usual. Slowly and carefully, Tyelpe sat up and took his phone. 6:35 a.m. For Aulë’s sake, it was barely afternoon when Fëanor helped him into bed yesterday - had he spent over twelve hours sleeping? Well, perhaps it was what his body needed, then. There was a ton of missed calls and messages on his phone, but none were from Fëanor, so he decided they would wait. Tyelpe took his painkillers, opened the blinds, let everything go from his mind, and looked into the sky.

“Varda the Queen of Stars, give me hope.”

He pressed a hand to his chest. “Tulkas the Fighter, give me strength.”

He looked down and curled his hand into a fist, pressing it to his chest again. “Aulë the Smith, give me will.”

Finally, he looked at his right hand. “Este the Healer, help me recover. Or, if that is not possible, help me cope.”

Prayer finished, he slid to the floor, grabbed the clothes, and walked to the bathroom. Nothing changed here: same tall mirror in a simple cast frame, closet probably still holding the beauty products he left here ages ago, the silky grey shower curtain… Tyelpe looked at his reflection in the mirror: the undereye circles were now gone, which was very good, but he had lost quite a bit of weight and no longer looked like his usual self. His hair was in dire need of washing, and Tyelpe cringed at the thought. The hair was hip-length and required thorough washing every time, not to mention the conditioner (which was nearly impossible to wash off with one hand!) and various hair oils. And braiding. And styling. Which of the Valar should he pray to for help with all this? Perhaps he would have to cut it short. 

The very thought of cutting his hair made Tyelpe’s heart sink. He loved it and was proud of it; besides, he disliked the common way men wore their hair. Half of his male friends with short hair would become 50% prettier if they grew it longer. But unless Fëanor was ready to help him, he would have to join those ranks. It would be wise.

After undressing, he found some hair pins he’d left in the closet ages ago and managed to stick the braid to his head. Then, he moved the shower curtain aside… and yelled. A dragon? A dragon in the bathroom!

The beast was relatively large; most of its body was curled into rings and rested against the wall, with two paws sticking out and the head bent forward. Oh. Showerhead.

Tyelpe touched the greenish body of the dragon, admiring Fëanor’s work but still kind of mad at his grandfather; it was a good thing he didn’t trip and fall after seeing this! 

Chuckling, he climbed into the tub. Most of the things he needed were already here, which was a relief. He had already gotten a knack of washing himself with one hand, except for the hair; the only problem was keeping his bandaged hand out of the water. Now was probably a good time to think of what to do next. Tyelpe liked to think in lists, so he made one in his head. 

It looked approximately like this.

“Health:

  * attend the doctor’s appointment to take off the bandages (finally!)
  * probably a hairdresser’s appointment, too
  * physical therapy
  * not think of Sauron
  * not think of Sauron
  * not think of Sauron



Business:

  * tell the organizers of the local jewelry exhibition he is unable to finish the piece
  * kill off the remnants of Ost-in-Edhil: any bills, supplier contracts, unfinished commission negotiations, etc.
  * also get his instruments from the forge, as he’d still need them, hopefully 
  * delete that instagram before any notification gives him a stab in the heart
  * whatever happens, never do any business with lovers ever again (if he happens to sign up for the whole love thing)
  * sell the car because he can’t drive anymore
  * sell the apartment because he doesn’t need that love nest and also he cannot live alone in his condition



Family and friends:

  * answer that ton of messages and calls that was waiting on his phone
  * somehow tell Narvi???”



The last part was probably the hardest: he had been ignoring Narvi’s texts and messages for three weeks now. Narvi had been his friend for ages, and Tyelpe knew all his thoughts and opinions, yet this time he had no idea how Narvi would react. They had always been equals, always competing, exchanging the results of their work, and now Tyelpe was out of the competition. He had to… Oh no, he had to send Narvi a birthday gift, he had completely forgotten and missed the day!

Cursing under his breath, Tyelpe washed off the soap and carefully patted himself dry as far as that was possible - he did not want slippery floor to cause him another injury. Then, he ran to the bedroom, wearing nothing but a towel, grabbed the phone, and dialed Narvi’s number.

Narvi took exactly two seconds to reply. “You’d better have a good excuse, Tyelperinquar.”

Tyelpe sighed. He wished he didn’t have one. “I was in hospital. And then… I just couldn’t make myself call you, I’m sorry, Narvi.” He was close to crying again. Why was it so hard to tell people?

“Tell me what happened, Tyelpe. It must be something serious.”

No, no, no, he couldn’t. He couldn’t say it. All he could was sob.

“Shush, Tyelpe,” Narvi wasn’t the one to panic easily. “Take a deep breath and tell me what happened. You’ve damaged something? It’s permanent?”

“Yes,” Tyelpe managed to whisper.

“Spine? Legs? Hands?”

“Right hand.”

Now what? What would Narvi say?

“Tyelpe, it’s not the end of the world,” Narvi spoke after a pause. “You got the other one, and… If you want, I could, you know, hold stuff for you, and…”

“Stop,” Tyelpe growled. “You’re an amazing jeweller at the peak of your career. Don’t drag yourself down to my level only to make me feel better.”

Narvi sighed. “I insist on visiting you. Are you at home?”

“At Fëanor’s, because I’m like a baby now. I can’t even brush my fucking hair!” It was so hard not to be bitter.

“Whatever happened to Sauron?”

Of course. In addition to telling everyone he’s a cripple now, he also had to explain his boyfriend - his ex - was an asshole. “Please don’t ask me, Narvi.”

“I see. Ost-in-Edhil?”

“Officially closed.”

“So, can I visit you, Tyelpe?” Narvi insisted. “No pitiful looks, promised, and I won’t be staring at your hair.”

Tyelpe chuckled. “Fine. Tomorrow?” Narvi lived in another town, so the trip would take some time, and he would need to stay for the night, too. Surely Fëanor won’t refuse him that.

“Alright. I’ll be there at noon. And, Tyelpe?”

“Yes?”

“You have a great skill. It will find a way to manifest itself.”

Tyelpe took a deep breath: he wanted to believe. “Thank you, Narvi.”

After hanging up, he looked at other missed calls. There was one from Nerdanel, two from Morwen, and one from an unknown number. He texted Morwen, “I’m okay, staying at Fëanor’s, tell Turin I love him,” and then dialed Nerdanel.

“Tyelpe?..” 

Oh shit, she was worried sick!

“Hi, Grandma. I’m okay. Don’t worry about me.”

“Tyelpe, that doesn’t fit my definition of okay!” Nerdanel protested furiously. “Why didn’t you tell Fëanor right away?!” She sighed. “I’m sorry, darling, you have enough to go through without me yelling at you.”

“I probably deserve it,” Tyelpe chuckled.

“Now, my dear, I want you to listen to me very attentively and do what I say,” Nerdanel spoke firmly.

“Huh?”

“I know you want to continue working. And I know Fëanor has already embarked on some crazy project of getting you back to work - don’t interrupt me. I don’t want you to get even more hurt because you poured hot metal on yourself or dropped a hammer on your foot. Please make sure you have a good command of your left hand and your wounds are healed before you do heavy stuff, okay?”

“Alright,” Tyelpe agreed. It wasn’t quite what he liked to hear, but he had not liked it when Nerdanel warned him about Sauron either, so perhaps it is time to listen.

“I’m glad you agree with me.” Her voice relaxed a little. “I’m taking a flight in two days, so be ready.”

“Grandma?” Now Tyelpe was surprised. “I thought you had a project to work on?”

“I also have a grandson to take care of.”

“Good,” Tyelpe smiled . He had not seen his grandmother in ages, as she lived by the sea, which was better for her health, and they both had work to do. “I will be very happy.”

“I’m glad, darling. Now, I have a meeting with a customer, so I have to go. Please make sure you do what I said, alright?”

“Yeah, yeah, okay,” Tyelpe chuckled. “Good luck with that. Aulë’s blessings.”

The day was getting better. He would see Narvi and Nerdanel! Now, what was next? Unknown number? It was probably something about Ost-in-Edhil, he thought, so it would be too early to call at 7 a.m., but then, the call was made late at night, so perhaps it wasn’t that?

There was only one way to find out. Tyelpe dialed the number, anxious and curious, and waited for whoever it was to pick up.

“Tyelpe??”

Oh no. It couldn’t be. It couldn’t possibly be… “Father?”

“I’m sorry, son.” Curufin’s voice was all the same as eight years ago, maybe a little strained.

“For what?” Tyelpe couldn’t help it; his tongue felt bitter, and so were his words. “For what you said about silversmithing, for throwing me out of the house, or for me being crippled?”

“For the third,” Curufin replied calmly. “Well, for the second, too. As for silversmithing, you’ll probably manage that with one hand.”

Tyelpe wasn’t sure if it was optimism or his father’s traditional disrespect for “useless crafts.” “I sure hope so. What do you want?”

“To talk to my son once in a decade?”

“Well, we are talking.”

There was a lengthy pause, and Tyelpe was already thinking of hanging up when Curufin broke it. “I saw pictures of your works on the web. Those were admirable. I hope you find a way to return to your craft.”

Wow. Did he just… did he just say “admirable?” Never in his life did Tyelpe hear anything like that from his father. “You’re probably saying that because you pity me.”

“Perhaps. Do you want to… meet, maybe?”

“Maybe I do. But that will require you to get to Fëanor’s, so you’ll get two embarrassing talks in one package,” Tyelpe smiled.

“Sometimes we have to do embarrassing talks,” Curufin admitted. “So I will be…”

He was interrupted by a soft female voice in the background. “Darling, who is that you’re talking to?”

Wow! Just wow, did Varda hit Curufin with a star to make him finally stop grieving over Tyelpe’s mother and move on?

Curufin probably tried to cover the speaker, but Tyelpe could hear him nevertheless. “It’s my son, sweetheart. I’ll be done soon.” He returned to Tyelpe. “I was going to say, I will be able to visit in a couple of days. Tell your grandfather.”

Tyelpe saw his own smug face in the mirror - and had to suppress a laugh. “Is she a smith?”

“She is,” Curufin sounded ridiculously shy.

“Well done, father,” Tyelpe giggled. “Now you have three embarrassing conversations ahead!”

“Looking forward, dear son,” Curufin replied, his tone warmer than usual. “Now, I have to go.”

“Yeah, bye. Say hi to the lady.”

“I will.”

Still giggling and still in his towel, Tyelpe went to the bathroom, got dressed, gave the shower dragon a slap on the nose, and went downstairs. Fëanor was nowhere to be found, so Tyelpe assumed he was in the forge. He didn’t want to go there; his mood was relatively good, and seeing someone capable of work while he was not would probably ruin it. Tyelpe started the coffee maker and opened the fridge in search for something that did not require cutting. He found a stack of pancakes wrapped into plastic wrap with a note on top saying “For Tyelpe.” Tyelpe almost teared up: this totally felt like he was a little boy again. Memories flooded his mind: Fëanor roasting meat with Tyelpe attempting to steal some, Nerdanel trying to keep him out of the forge (unsuccessfully), pancakes in the morning, stories about Aulë and his Maiar at bedtime… He smiled and pressed Fëanor’s note to his chest. He’ll save it.

Reheating pancakes in the microwave and pouring himself coffee was simple enough. Tyelpe cringed, recalling his lonely breakfasts; he had to order all the time unless he wanted to suffer. After a short prayer to Yavanna, Tyelpe proceeded to the meal. Halfway through, he heard his phone chime. He would rather die than drop his habit of eating while using the phone, so he figured out a way of tapping the screen with his right hand. That was good. Maybe he’d find other ways to use it.

There were two new messages for his personal instagram account, celebrimboreregion, from one ereinion-gil-galad. Gil! 

“Hi Tyelpe. Please let me know how you are.”

“Also why are you Celebrimbor?”

Tyelpe laughed and responded right away. “Hi Gil. I’ve slept for ages, but I’m fine. I have many names.”

“Like how many?”

“Like three?”

“Can you call me? I don’t have your number.”

That was something Tyelpe would gladly do, and so he did, hoping that Gil wouldn’t be disturbed by some quiet chewing sounds.

“Hi Tyelpe.” Gil sounded like he was smiling, and that made Tyelpe smile too.

“Hi Gil. Sorry I didn’t leave you my number.”

“That’s okay. Are you feeling fine?”

“Pretty well, yes. You?”

“I’m well. Worked too much yesterday. It might be bold of me to assume, but perhaps you want some company?”

Tyelpe gasped. Inviting Gil would just complete this day to perfection, but... “Gil, it’s a long ride.”

“It’s fine. I’ll out on my favorite music and think of new designs.”

“A fellow artist?” Tyelpe gasped. “Please come. And bring your art in whatever form.”

“I will. Thank you. I’ll get going now, text me the address.”

“See you, Gil.”

Tyelpe was almost done with the breakfast when he heard voices coming from the front door. Fëanor brought someone?

“Yeah, alright, it’s on the second floor. Don’t take off your shoes.” Fëanor raised his voice, “Tyelpe! Are you decent?”

“Always decent and honorable!” Tyelpe yelled back without even thinking.

“Ah, that’s a good one,” Fëanor replied, and a soft chuckle joined his laugh. 

The steps followed into the kitchen, and Tyelpe saw Fëanor… and a freaking  _ vision _ . The man was slightly taller than Fëanor, wearing a work apron, his long hair a silver waterfall; his face was smooth and perfect, adorned by bright blue eyes that reminded Tyelpe of sapphires. Tyelpe found himself gaping at his proud solid chest and long lean legs.

“Tyelpe?” Fëanor coughed.

Tyelpe blinked and shook his head; the man chuckled. “That is fine, I usually get that reaction. Gets very dangerous with apprentices.”

Fëanor sighed. “Tyelpe, if you’re done staring, meet Dior.”

Tyelpe blushed, ashamed about his behavior and especially about the fact that Fëanor noticed. “I’m sorry,” he spoke to Dior. “I thought you were Aulë.”

Dior chuckled again. “That is the best compliment I have ever received in my life; and I’ve received my fair share.” 

Only now did Tyelpe notice the absence of a right hand. Dior Eluchil! He was wearing a hat and a pair of goggles in that video - probably less of a safety measure than a way to ensure all of the viewers do focus on the technique and not his looks. Why would Valar make anyone so beautiful?

“Well,” Fëanor broke the silence, “I’ll go find the blueprint, and you guys have a thing or two to discuss.” He nodded at Dior and went upstairs.

Dior took off his apron and hung it on the chair before sitting down next to Tyelpe. “So, how’s it going?” he asked with a kind smile.

“Well,” Tyelpe decided to be honest, “everybody is pitying me, Fëanor turned into a babysitter, and I had to close my dearest child Ost-in-Edhil. Not cool.”

“Oh,” Dior raised his eyebrows, “Fëanor never mentioned you owned Ost-in-Edhil.”

Tyelpe smiled bitterly: it was flattering that Dior heard of his business, but Ost-in-Edhil was gone, along with Tyelpe’s hand.

Dior put his hand on Tyelpe’s shoulder. “Been there. Just do not harm yourself any further, alright?”

“Actually,” Tyelpe continued his sharing, “I was about to kill myself when Fëanor told me to look you up.”

Dior curled his hand into a fist, pressed it to his chest, and looked down. “Thank Aulë for this. Now, Fëanor mentioned you might be interested in getting some help.”

“I am,” Tyelpe nodded eagerly.  _ Whatever it takes _ , he thought,  _ whatever it takes _ .

“I will be glad to teach you,” Dior said, “but there are some conditions you must consider before you sign up for this.”

“I’m listening.”

“First of all, if you are indeed the owner of Ost-in-Edhil, you are already accomplished, yet I would take you as my apprentice. I would of course treat you respectfully, but this might feel… degrading.”

“I see,” Tyelpe said. “I don’t see how I could be degraded any further than I already am, but I’ll trust you on that one.”

“There is always a way to be degraded further, Tyelpe,” Dior stated quietly and continued. “Second and no less important, I am a blacksmith. I do not typically work with silver, and I have no experience with jewels. I will do my best to help you with your own work, but as my apprentice, you will have to do what I do.”

“This is something I’m used to,” Tyelpe nodded. Fëanor was a blacksmith, and so was Curufin, so it wasn’t like this would be new to him. “Is there a third item in the list?”

“Of course,” Dior smiled. “Well, since I am aware of the effect I have on people, I have very strict policy regarding my apprentices and associates. I do not kiss them, I do not sleep with them, I do not date them, and I do not marry them. That will not change.”

Tyelpe looked down sadly. “Ost-in-Edhil could have used the policy.”

“No need to dwell on the past,” Dior put his hand on Tyelpe’s shoulder again. “I myself have made some mistakes as well.”

Fëanor returned, waving cheerfully with a scroll of paper. “Found the blueprint!” He rolled it over the counter, not bothering about the surface being or not being clean enough.

Tyelpe was surprised to see the dragon from the bathroom. “Wow! The voyeuristic beastie!”

Dior threw his head back and laughed, hard. “Is that what it’s officially named, Fëanor?”

“No, that’s Tyelpe’s creativity,” Fëanor threw a warning glance in Tyelpe’s direction, and the latter decided not to speak his opinion on the dragon.

Dior squinted his eyes. “Is it seriously saying ‘shit from Etsy’ right here?”

“It is, because I used shit from Etsy,” Fëanor replied proudly.

“And it is patented like this?” Dior’s eyebrows went up.

“Patent applications do not include blueprints.”

“Oh, that’s good then. Now, show me the finished product,” Dior demanded. He turned to Tyelpe. “You think of what I said, and don’t rush. Wait till you feel a little better, and ask your doctor before returning to work.” He patted Tyelpe on the shoulder, stood up, and followed Fëanor upstairs.

Tyelpe leaned against the back of the chair. He was a little overwhelmed: moving, Grandma’s upcoming visit, father talking to him again, Dior’s offer… It was a bit much to take. He should definitely spend the rest of the day relaxing and doing something positive.

There was a knock on the door. Gil! Tyelpe ran to the door, opened it, and wrapped his arms around the smiling Gil. This was definitely the positive.

“Glad to see you, Tyelpe,” Gil whispered. “How are you?”

_ Much better now that you’re here _ , Tyelpe thought.


	4. The Gates

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Tyelpe and Gil spend a peaceful day together, Fëanor struggles with the dragon, and an ancient fable is being told.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> The fable is based on a popular topic that appears in many fairy tales and legends (a poor person unexpectedly receiving magical help). This particular one is inspired by Beatrix Porter's The Tailor of Gloucester. The beginning if the fable is modeled after Porter's tale, but the rest is mine. I thank electricsheep78 for enlightening me on the details of gate-making.

“So what kind of art do you do?” Tyelpe asked curiously when they were both seated on the couch, with tea and Gil’s delightful cookies. Gil could bake, which was amazing, to his friend’s opinion.

“Anything that’s ordered,” Gil shrugged. “Right now, I am working on the illustrations to the Book of Valar.”

“Wow!” Tyelpe got even more excited than he initially was. “Is it commissioned by the church?”

“Yes,” Gil nodded, visibly proud at the fact that he had received such a commission. “The Church of Iluvatar, of course; I wouldn’t work for the Church of Varda even if threatened with a gun.”

“I did work for them,” Tyelpe confessed, testing if Gil was some kind of a zealot. “Made some silver items for the local temple.”

“That’s different,” Gil shook his head. “This edition of the Book of Valar is for young readers. And  _ I _ have the task of making the Valar look more approachable for the youth. That is basically a form of preaching. I would never agree to do that for the Church of Varda!”

Well, committed, but not a fanatic. That worked for Tyelpe.

“That’s so interesting, Gil dear!” Tyelpe admitted, sincerely. “Could you show me what you have so far?”

Gil readily opened his tablet, flattered and a little flushed. “I was trying to make them more  _ diverse _ , you know. Less canonical, somewhat. The church agrees it’s time to review the old interpretations. And, besides, some of the common ‘facts’ about Valar aren’t even facts.” He clicked on one image. “For instance, here is a black Varda.”

Gil demonstrated Tyelpe a picture of a very beautiful young African woman with glitter on her face, clad in long silky robes, purple and blue, adorned by stars at the hem. 

“I like that,” Tyelpe nodded.

“This is an actual model who volunteered. And then, I have these Fëanturi who look kinda gay…” Gil smiled as he demonstrated the drawing. “Well, not kinda, they look  _ incredibly _ gay. Not sure the Church will approve this one, though.” Next was an Asian Oromë with a huge, masterfully drawn bow, and a pole dancer Nessa.

“Your Valar are the  _ best _ Valar!” Tyelpe gasped. “Do you have Aulë?”

“I figured you’d ask about Aulë,” Gil smiled fondly. “Unfortunately, I don’t have him yet.”

“Our family has a special relation to him,” Tyelpe explained as he bit off a piece of his cookie. “I mean, we do not single him out like the COV does to Varda, but he is special to us, as a smith and an artist.”

“I like how you called him an artist!” Gil nodded eagerly. “That’s how I see him. He’s always depicted as a sweaty, burly man hammering the shit out of of metal, but to me, he’s an artist, a thinker.”

“How about a disabled Aulë then?” Tyelpe suggested. “He’s impaired, yet he finds ways to create art and implement his visions. And he’s beautiful - in a serene kind of way.”

“Well that’s just you,” Gil blurted out, which Tyelpe met with surprised laughter and crimson cheeks.

“No, no,” Tyelpe protested, chuckling, “I didn’t mean me! I meant, we’re having an actual Aulë over, let me show you!”

Intrigued, Gil followed Tyelpe to the dining room where Fëanor was talking to Dior.

“Man, this is ridiculous,” Dior’s pleasant voice could be heard in the hallway. “You cannot just use sodium silicate like this, it’s irresponsible!”

“Dior, whatever! Find a better way, what do you want?”

It took the two men a few seconds to realize they had company, and  _ of course _ Gil stared. After a polite exchange of hellos, the two of them were back on the couch, giggling and blushing like two schoolkids who had just met a celebrity in a grocery store.

“Oh  _ stars _ !” Gil exclaimed, looking at Tyelpe with all the fangirl feels. “If he’s not a Vala, he’s obviously at least a Maia! Is it legal to be  _ that  _ beautiful?”

“I know, right?” Tyelpe giggled. “He promised to teach me to work one-handed. I’ll probably burn myself with liquid metal at some point!”

“Please don’t,” his friend replied. “And I will definitely ask Dior to let me draw him. By the way, since you are going to work for him, can you pose as one of his Maiar?”

Needless to say, Tyelpe was very pleased and agreed.

“Thank you, my dear,” Gil nodded fondly. “You helped me figure out Aulë; I was stuck on him! Now, would you like to request any help for yourself? I would gladly help you.

“Um, well,” Tyelpe shifted in his seat uneasily, “there is something, but you’ll probably be disgusted.”

“It’s alright, Tyelpe,” Gil reassured, “I know your situation. Whatever it is, I’ll help.” 

“Alright.” Tyelpe sighed. “I have decided to cut my hair. I cannot take care of it. But I need to wash it first, and it’s impossible.”

“I can do that,” Gil nodded, looking at Tyelpe’s long, dark braid. “Really sad that you have to cut it though. How short?”

Tyelpe sighed. He had relaxed, eating cookies and chatting and giggling over Dior, but now he again became aware of his tragedy. His hair! His pride and glory! “I don’t know. Probably ugly short.”

Gil moved to sit closer. “Shoulder length will be fine. I always wash my hair with one hand ‘cause my shower head is not attached to the wall, and I have to hold it with the other. I manage just fine.”

Tyelpe’s face lit up. “Besides,” Gil added, encouraged by his friend’s happy face, “have you seen Dior’s hair? He manages it somehow. Maybe you’ll be more skilled with your left hand by the time the hair grows back.”

It was a delight to see hope in Tyelpe’s eyes; it was not just about the hair but about regaining his old life. 

“Alright then,” Gil moved his mug aside, “do you want to do the washing now?”

Tyelpe nodded, and they went upstairs for a visit to the shower dragon. Tyelpe moved the shower curtain aside, sat on the floor next to the tub, threw his head back. Gil wrapped a towel around his friend’s shoulders and sat on the brim of the tub.

“Wow,” he gasped, looking up at Fëanor’s creation. “I’m glad I was aware of its presence. I would have shat my pants!”

“It scared the crap out of me this morning,” Tyelpe confessed, shaking his head.

The process went surprisingly smoothly; Gil figured out a way to wash such long hair quite soon, and all Tyelpe needed was to relax and concentrate on warm water and thegentle movements of the other’s hands. His neck was a little strained, but despite this, he felt cozy and content. Even if he tried, he could not describe how calm and reassured Gil made him feel: there was warmth in his chest, and slight tingling in the fingertips of his left hand, and sweet serenity in his head. It was all good. It would all be fine.

After Gil finished successfully and wrapped a towel around Tyelpe’s head, the two of them headed to Tyelpe’s room, as the latter wanted to take his painkillers and lie down. Relaxed and at ease, he offered Gil to settle next to him, and Gil agreed.

“It’s such a tiny room,” Gil said, looking around.

“I stayed here as a kid, it was enough for me back then,” Tyelpe explained with a thoughtful smile.

“How long ago did you move out?”

“Well,” Tyelpe frowned, “my father and I moved out when I was... about ten or so, but we visited very often. And then father threw me out, and I returned here at seventeen.”

“He threw you out, why?” Gil turned on his side to look at Tyelpe, concerned. “You came out as gay?”

“Rather, I came out as a silversmith,” Tyelpe laughed at the absurdity of this. “See, my father was convinced we only had to employ our skill to produce things that were actually useful. And then I told him I wanted to make jewelry most of all and not bowls and doorknobs. He snapped at me, and he said I was disrespectful towards my own father, and that Aulë wouldn’t bless my path. That last thing did it for me. I…” Tyelpe sighed, recalling. “I told him to go fuck himself ‘cause who was he to speak for  _ Aulë _ ! And, well, when he heard that, he told me to pack my shit and get the Mandos out.”

“That’s… really bad.” Gil blinked. “How did Fëanor react?”

“Fëanor gladly welcomed me… and he hasn’t spoken to my father ever since.” Another sigh. “Well, my family is complicated. Nerdanel resents Fëanor ‘cause she believes he’s crazy and never thinks of the consequences of his wrath. Fëanor is still upset because Nerdanel divorced him while she was pregnant with my father. My father is bitter because my mom died, and he thinks Fëanor and Nerdanel pampered me too much, and he blames me for pretty much everything that goes wrong with his life. And I respond him in kind.”

“I see. Are you upset with your family, Tyelpe?”

“What? No, I’m happy. Fëanor and Nerdanel have always been awesome to me. When my mom died in childbirth, they even moved in together to help my dad. You know, he mostly stayed in bed and refused to get up… So Fëanor and Nerdanel watched me.”

Gil blinked, letting the story sink in. “You mean, Nerdanel watched you?”

“No, her and Fëanor,” Tyelpe corrected.

“But like… he’s a guy,” Gil frowned.

“Why does it matter?” Tyelpe raised his eyebrows. “Nerdanel didn’t breastfeed me, if that’s what you imply.”

“No, I imagined, like… he was in the forge and she took care of the baby, right?”

“Ah!” Tyelpe chuckled. “You mean that First Age bullshit about woman’s work? No, that’s not how it works at the Curufinwë-Eregion household. Nerdanel is a metal sculptor, and a renowned one at that, and there was no reason for her to sacrifice her career while I was just as much Fëanor’s grandson as hers.”

“That’s incredible!” Gil smiled and clapped his hands. “I had several stepfathers, but it was always my mom’s job to watch me. But maybe it was because I wasn’t theirs.”

“Several?” Tyelpe frowned. “Were they alright?”

“I don’t know,” Gil shrugged, “they never paid much attention to me.”

“What about your father?”

“I don’t know who he is.”

“Your mom still alive?”

“Yeah. We don’t talk much. I visited last year, but his year, I’ll probably skip. Still not over my last visit.”

“What’s wrong with your mom?” Tyelpe asked bluntly, and Gil was actually grateful to him: no pity, no careful “if you are fine with it,” no ignoring it either.

“She keeps pointing out how much of a burden and bother I was, and how she is a hero for bringing me up.” Gil winced. “Well, yes, single mothers  _ are _ cool, but why make me feel like I’m trash? Besides, she never told me where my father was. Or  _ who _ he was. She refuses to tell me. I don’t like it.”

“I wouldn’t like it either,” Tyelpe nodded. “Maybe he died. My dad also doesn’t speak of my mom, but I had Fëanor and Nerdanel to tell me about her. Oh, by the way,” he added with a smile, “if you still want a father, just come here often, and Fëanor will soon start treating you like a son. That’s what happened to Narvi, my friend.”

“I would like a father like Fëanor,” Gil confessed quietly.

“Exactly,” Tyelpe nodded. “He’s caring, smart, ironic, and he cooks like a fucking kitchen Maia. Also, he tells the best bedtime tales.”

“Bedtime tales?” Gil’s eyes lit up. “I’ve never been told any bedtime tales.”

“Stay for the night,” Tyelpe suggested with a soft smile. “I’ll ask him to tell us the best one.”

“What’s the best one about?” Gil asked curiously, picking up a tress of Tyelpe’s hair to play with.

“Aulë!” Tyelpe snickered. “Are you surprised? But really, it’s amazing. I believe most of the tales I heard of him were invented by Fëanor himself - I mean, I don’t believe Aulë and his Maiar actually went on a quest to retrieve the video game CD I lost at school…” Gil laughed out loud at this point. “But this one sounds like a legit legend. I won’t spoil it for you.”

“Alright,” Gil nodded, content. “Do you really want me to stay for the night, Tyelpe?”

“Of course. I’ll ask Fëanor, but I’m sure he wouldn’t mind at all.”

***

As it turned out, Dior and Fëanor decided to take off the shower dragon: Dior had purchased the design and the patent, and now he wanted an example of a finished product. Apparently, he had a mind to make and sell quite a few of such dragons. The dragon was attached to the wall tile, and some of the tiles had to be taken off as well, which did not discourage Tyelpe’s grandfather in the least. Even the sounds of tile being broken were not as loud as Fëanor’s cheerful swearing.

“Manwë fucking Sulimo, why is this shitty thing stuck?! Come the Mandos off, you motherfucker! What a piece of crap!”

Dior’s soft voice could also be heard, mixing with the other’s loud rambling. Since the noises were inescapable, Tyelpe decided to make a walk-in visit to the hairdresser’s, accompanied by Gil for moral support. 

Tyelpe was really glad to have this support; Gil distracted him with talks all the time, and he did not even take notice of what was going on until nearly two thirds of his hair was gone. Tyelpe could not suppress a sad sigh as he looked into the mirror; yet this had to be done. Hair would grow back, and hopefully, he will return to his previous life by then.

By the time they came back, both Dior and the dragon were gone; they found Fëanor replacing the broken tile in the bathroom, red-faced and sweaty.

“How’s it going, Fëanor?” Tyelpe asked with a cute smile as he peeked through the bathroom door.

Fëanor sighed and put the trowel down to turn to his grandson. “Tyelperinquar, my sweet child,” he said with a tired grin, “again you are distracting me from work when I’m irritated. Just like when you were a kid.”

“It’s because I love you!” Tyelpe assured him, giggling. “Can Gil stay for the night?”

Fëanor raised his eyebrows and threw a suspicious glance at Gil who was standing slightly behind his friend in the hallway. “Well, sure. You may bring any boys. Or girls. As long as none of them is Sauron.”

Tyelpe nodded. “I… I told Gil you would tell us the legend of Aulë and the poor smith,” he said quietly.

Fëanor’s suspicious gaze changed into an open, sincere one, and his face softened. “Oh, did you now, my darling boy? Well then… I shall tell it.” He looked away, as if trying to hide his face. “Whatever happened to your hair, Tyelps?”

***

After an exciting dinner in the patio, during which Gil saw a firefly for the first time in his life, and a warm shower, both of them were comfortably curled up under blankets. Tyelpe was in his bed, and Gil was lying on an air mattress right next to it. To set up the right mood, Tyelpe brought tea and lit up three candles in a wrought iron candle holder.

In the middle of their quiet chat over tea, there was a knock on the door. Fёanor was in his red robe and slippers, holding a silver goblet. His face was tired yet soft and calm as it rarely were.

“Wow, Fëanor!” Tyelpe giggled, looking at the goblet that most likely held wine. “Is that how you usually end your day?”

“It’s how I end my day when Dior is around,” the older man grumbled, sitting down on a chair to sip his drink. “Brace yourself, my silver son, for I do not envy any of his apprentices. The man is as insufferable as he is fair.”

“He is, indeed, very fair,” Tyelpe said with a wide grin, and Gil nodded eagerly.

“You should have seen his mother,” Fëanor shook his head. “That woman…” He sighed and took a large sip from the goblet. Tyelpe and Gil looked at each other and giggled. “What are you laughing at? Like I didn’t see you gaping at Dior!”

The boys blushed.

“Anyway, enough of Eluchils.” Fëanor cleared his throat. “You are here to listen to something different.”

Tyelpe sat up in anticipation and moved his tea mug aside; Gil slid closer to Fëanor on his mattress.

“This is a legend my father-in-law told me,” the man started, “and he heard it from his father, who heard it from his father before him.”

“In the ancient land of Hollin, there lived a poor smith. He worked in his forge from dawn to dusk and then some to make a living. He would work with iron, gold, silver, or any other metal, and he would make whatever the customer desired: either strong doors and high fences, or delicate circlets and beautiful rings. The smith possessed a great skill he received from the Vala, yet still, the materials were very costly, and he was barely able to make ends meet. He was poor, old, and frail, even more so with the little food he received.”

“One winter, when the entire Hollin was covered with snow, its rivers froze with thick ice, and one could not tell snow piles from mountains, the wrath of winds broke the gates of the smith’s city. It was believed to be a bad sign, and besides, it was no good to have no city gates in those perilous times. The lord of the city made a commission to the smith for new city gates, and they had to be finished by the winter solstice.”

“It was no easy task: short winter days left little time for the smith to work, and the gates had to be large, and strong, massive as stone, and yet majestic, declaring the power of the lord and the friendship between him and his people. Three days the smith labored: he made a mold and cast the panels for the first gate, two times seven. Yet the winter cold and hard toil damaged his health, and he soon came down with a fever. On the fourth day, he could not cast anymore, for his shaking hands threatened to fail and burn him with hot metal.”

Gil threw a glance at Tyelpe; the younger smith looked at his right hand, tears glistening in his eyes. Fëanor’s voice grew hoarser.

“Tears rolled down his cheeks as he lay in his bed, and still he could not find strength in him to get on his legs, let alone work in the forge. The smith could not even call on anyone to warn the lord that the could not complete the work, for his dwelling and his forge were too far from other buildings, and he had not any kin to come check on him. He prayed and prayed to Aulë the Mighty Smith, for he alone could help the old man. One night passed thus, and second, and third. On the fourth night, the smith gathered his strength and crawled to the forge. His hands were still shaking, and he did not have anything to hope for but a miracle.”

There was silence, broken only by Tyelpe’s little sob and Fëanor’s sigh. Then, the narrator spoke again.

“Yet instead of a cold, dark forge he expected to see, he witnessed the fire burning, and the entire building with surroundings lit as if it was daytime. Unable to believe his eyes, the smith crawled closer and peeked into the doorway. What he saw made him forget to breathe.”

“Aulë the Maker himself, the great Smith, was there, humming under his breath and pouring hot iron into the mold! He had some ready panels cooling, and some cooled and stacked on a work table beside him. He was so quick to work, and so tall, so bright and strong! His copper-colored hair shone, brighter than fire itself, and his fair face radiated pleasure at his work. So merciful he was, so kind, and so ready to help, the great Aulë, forsaking his divine commissions to save the poor smith, and help the brave lord who wished to have his city defended, and protect the dwellers of the city in these perilous times. A laborer he was, Aulë the Maker, not proud, not reluctant to finish a simple smith’s work for him.”

“‘What are you looking for, my friend?’the Mighty asked, looking the smith in the eye, and the old man gaped in surprise, not knowing he had been spotted. ‘I know you are ailing, and you should be in bed. Go now, and worry not; for the city gates I will finish by the winter solstice.’ The old smith nodded and crawled back to bed. Not only kind was Aulë, he thought, but modest too, not asking for praise or anything in return.” 

“The smith closed his eyes and slept, peacefully, through two more days and nights. On the eve of the winter solstice, he awoke and sat in great confusion; he thought it all had been a dream, and now he had to answer before the lord and his subjects for not finishing the gates. In low spirits, he dressed and ran to the forge.”

“Yet what he had seen was no dream, for the gates rested on the ground outside the forge, iron panels attached to the wooden base, each gate having two times seven. Mighty were the gates, and fair, and blessed by Aulё the Maker. The lord was very pleased, and the people praised the smith’s skill and commitment to his city ever since.”

Gil felt his shoulder being clutched, and turned his head; Tyelpe was sitting on his bed, large tears running down his cheeks.

“Ask him, Tyelpe,” Fëanor said in a strained voice, “ask him, and he will provide.”

Tyelpe sobbed so loudly Gil climbed on his bed and hugged him tightly.

“Don’t despair, my boy,” Fëanor approached to stroke his grandson’s hair, “it will all work out, I promise. You’ll build your gates yet.”

Gil was reluctant to let go of Tyelpe after the older man wished them good night and left. He continued holding his friend when they both lay down, and Tyelpe hugged him back. Warm and comfortable and moved by the ancient fable, they both fell asleep.

Tyelpe revelled in the warmth of Gil’s embrace, and he drifted off to sleep soon enough. He was still aware of the rustling of leaves behind the open window and the quiet chirping of crickets when he heard a voice.

“You asked me, and I will help . But it will not be easy, Tyelperinquar. Let go of your pride!”

“I will do my best, Lord Aulë,” Tyelpe muttered, probably waking up Gil. With that, he fell into a deep, dreamless sleep.


	5. The Doubt

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Tyelpë is getting it even harder than he had thought he would.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Did I say no more angsty chapters? I lied.
> 
> Also, when did I last update this fic? Whaat? I'm sorry.

April passed, and so did May; summer heat now reigned outside. It squeezed the life out of Tyelpë every morning when he waited for the bus at the stop. His bandages were now removed and all the nasty scars revealed to the world. He devoted as many hours to physical therapy as he could, but to no avail. No movement, not a slightest twitch, with all the pain still there. Unfair. So unfair.

Tyelpë would roll in his bed for up to an hour, trying to find the right position for his limp hand. Desperation, pain, and tears followed him everywhere. First, making breakfast, clumsily, dropping things and cleaning them only to drop again. Then, trying to get dressed. He had to stop wearing belts altogether: it was too embarrassing to ask Fëanor to fasten them every time. Later, paying for the bus, collecting change with one hand. At some point, bus drivers quitted charging him; Tyelpë was not sure if that was better or worse. After he was back from Dior’s forge, same fun having a meal, then shower, washing his now-short hair and fumbling with skincare. Finally, trying to sleep in his small room, occasionally interrupted by pain.

Fëanor was supportive enough. Tyelpë’s only household responsibilities were vacuuming, loading dishes into the dishwasher, and, occasionally entertaining his grandfather while the latter was cooking. The first two Tyelpë had to wrestle out of Fëanor’s hold. Fëanor held Tyelpë when he cried, submitting to despair; Fëanor cooked his favorite food, learned to apply nail polish for him, and took him to restaurants on the weekend. Fëanor became - again - the storyteller he had once been, making up the adventures of Valar, Maiar, and his original characters as Tyelpë rolled himself to sleep. Once last month, Tyelpë woke up with pain so bad a double dose of painkillers would not help. Sobbing like a little kid, he patted to Fëanor’s bedroom, and Fëanor held him, rubbing his back and speaking to him in a soft, gentle voice until he fell asleep.

Nerdanel was equally supportive. During her visits, which became very frequent, she would drive Tyelpë to Dior’s place and back so that he would not have to take the bus. She got him convenient bottles for beauty products and even taught him to apply eyeliner with one hand. She was the one who convinced him to try working with silver at least a little bit, and she hugged him when he cried over that ugly ring. The next one was not as ugly. At least, Narvi said so.

Tyelpë’s father finally made an appearance.While still a bit cold and emotionally distant, he was much softer now than Tyelpë had remembered him. Curufin was somewhat kinder to his son, and more attentive, and he wanted to help. Tyelpë authorized him to sell the apartment and other possessions he had now no need in. Curufin successfully got rid of the car and was now negotiating with the potential buyers of the apartment where Tyelpë used to be so happy. The very thought of it was maddening.

There were many, many things that drove Tyepë mad, but one of them was almost worse than the rest combined:  _ Dior Eluchil. _

Dior was  _ insufferable. _ Tyelpë had been fooled by his capturing appearance and a bit of compassion Dior expressed the first time they met. Dior the mentor, however, turned out to be a less than lovely person.

That man’s labor capacity was insane. Tyelpë was by no means a lazy worker, but he was used to doing things at his own, more relaxed pace. The value of jewelry and his relative popularity allowed him to be comfortably off nevertheless. Apparently, it was different with either blacksmithing or just Dior. Shower dragons got produced in ridiculously large quantities, and the master smith would not tolerate slow, distracted apprentices - even if one of the said apprentices much improved the dragon’s eyes, both the material and the technique, without getting either credit or reward. Dior had one answer to every problem: work metal. Tired? Work metal. Heartbroken? Work metal. Your hand hurts? Well, that press is foot-operated, so bite up your lip, my darling, and work metal. Hungry? Eat quickly, metal won’t wait for you to work it.

Dior was a harsh teacher. Tyelpë was learning, yes, but slowly, and Dior expected his apprentice to get it right the very first time. When that would not happen, he would not hide his disappointment, getting bitter and even angry.

The mentor’s attitude would drive Tyelpë insane. He, who had been the famed owner of Ost-in-Edhil, the artist known on the media, about to take apprentices of his own, was being scolded by this… blacksmith! Tyelpë would hiss with anger, his left hand curling into a fist, eyes burning with defiance slightly short of hatred. And then, Dior would smile, not at all charmingly, and command, “Let it go, Tyelpë. Smile. You have work to do.”

And Tyelpë smiled. Once, when Fëanor had someone over for the dinner, the man asked Tyelpë about his “disability,” not even trying to sound any less blunt. Tyelpë  _ smiled _ \- and caught his reflection in the glass door of the dining room cabinet. The smile was hideous. Promptly, he excused himself and ran to his bedroom where he fell on the bed, face into the pillow, and cried until there were no more tears.

He couldn’t tell Fëanor. As it turned out, the man had not received a single penny for his dragon; it was his payment for Tyelpë’s apprenticeship. Dior was getting a lot of money out of those dragons; money that could have been Fëanor’s. Tyelpë did not want Fëanor to think that he traded his invention for nothing. He did not wish to worry Nerdanel either. Narvi would just sacrifice his career to become Tyelpë’s literal right hand. And father… Father was the same as Dior. He wouldn’t understand why Tyelpë believed it was a problem.

That left Tyelpë with a single person: Gil. Gil received all the tear-soaked texts, Gil listened to his angry hissing, Gil held him and kissed his forehead in that gentle way that he alone could do. Gil drew so many memes with Dior’s face (he actually got the semblance very well) that oftentimes Tyelpë’s smile in the forge was genuine.

Somehow, despite the support of his entire family, it was the thought of Gil that helped Tyelpë get through the hard day of miserable unpaid labor. When he got up in the morning, dreadful about seeing Dior again, Tyelpë would think about Gil’s upcoming sleepover, or their planned one-day trip, or the weekend service that they would attend together.

This morning, Gil was on his mind as well. Nerdanel was visiting, and after Tyelpë would be done with the Eluhell, he would have a quiet evening with his grandparents and his lovely friend. The thought of Gil’s sweet smile brought warmth to his chest. Gil often smiled to him so widely, and his eyes seemed to open up, becoming even bigger than they already were, trusting and shining. It would all be fine. It would all be okay.

***

“How are you today, Tyelpë?” asked Dior with a pleasant smile, yet Tyelpë would not be fooled by that sweetness.

“Solid and beautiful like wrought iron,” he replied sarcastically.

Dior did not seem to get the sarcasm. “You are very beautiful indeed,” he nodded, making Tyelpë snort: probably some evil plan to get him to relax and then subject him to some unexpected scolding, he thought.

Tyelpë, however, turned out to be wrong: Dior was tacit and distraught. They managed all the fancy wrought iron window grates in silence, for which the apprentice was deeply grateful. Occasionally, Dior would look at his phone, which was incredibly surprising to Tyelpë: normally, the master smith did not allow himself to get so distracted, and the apprentice was forbidden to use his phone as well. His mentor was definitely nervous about something.

Whatever it was that made Dior so agitated, Tyelpë mentally thanked that thing, as Dior let him out early.

***

When he reached home, Gil’s car was already parked in the driveway. His heart beating faster, Tyelpë ran inside, to be pressed to a warm chest and squeezed by strong arms before he could realize what was going on. Gil was so cute, and he smelled of some spicy perfume, and Tyelpë felt so happy.

“Hello, darling,” Gil all but purred. “How do you look so lovely after work?”

Tyelpë blushed a little at Gil’s flirty tone - that has become normal by now - and silently thanked Dior for allowing his apprentice to use the shower in his house after the forge. “That’s not really work. More… training.”

“You’re working hard,” Gil disagreed softly, still holding Tyelpë. “Give yourself some credit, dear.”

Tyelpë didn’t want to argue, so he relaxed in Gil’s arms and sighed softly, tickling his friend’s neck with his breath.

“Ereinion, darling,” Nerdanel’s soft voice drew Tyelpë out of his reverie, “you didn’t finish the… oh, Tyelpë! You’re early, sweetheart. How was your day at the forge?”

Gil released Tyelpë from his embrace, muttering excuses, and departed to the kitchen. Apparently, he was receiving a free baking class from Nerdanel.

“I like your new boyfriend more than the old one,” Nerdanel smiled.

Tyelpë’s face became even redder than it already was. “He’s not… we’re not…”

“Of course, you’re not,” the woman nodded, smiling.

“What are you implying?” Tyelpë frowned. “Gil is my friend. He couldn’t possibly… no, he couldn’t. He’s just supportive, as a friend.”

“That, he is,” Nerdanel agreed. “But what about yourself, darling?”

Himself? He did not think about himself. What could Tyelpë think of himself if he was still waking up in tears after dreaming of his old life, safety and confidence and Sauron’s lips on his own. He would learn some fun fact and wish to share it with his former love, just out of habit. He would catch himself making two sandwiches instead of one, putting an additional spoonful of coffee into the maker, taking a pretty selfie without anyone to send it to… It would be so good if he could just forget.

Tyelpë felt like he had to forsake the very idea of being in a relationship. He did not want to commit again, to open up his mind to another, get used to their presence, learn their habits and let them learn his, only to be awaken from that dream in the most brutal way.

Besides, who would want him? No one, not even Gil. Tyelpë was broken, subdued, no longer that sassy artist. He rarely smiled, was covered in ugly scars - and was a  _ cripple _ . His lover would first have to become his babysitter. Tyelpë didn’t want that.

“Nothing,” he shook his head. “There’s nothing to talk about. I am a burden, not boyfriend material.”

“Darling, do not think of yourself that way,” Nerdanel contradicted softly, but he cut her off.

“Please stop. You’re only saying that because I’m family.”

“I’m sorry, love,” Nerdanel stepped closer to wrap her arms around her poor grandson. “Let’s get you something to eat, it always helps.”

Well, she was right at least about that. He could think about all this stuff later.


	6. So Many Times

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Tyelpë get a glimpse into Dior's dark past and his own bright future. Gil is being silly and naughty at the same time.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Yes! Yes! It's something you've been waiting for!

Tyelpë’s day started quite grimly. It was rainy and dark today, the chill breath of fall reminding him that summer was about to end. Opening and closing the umbrella required help, first Fëanor’s, then the bus driver’s, and, finally, Dior’s.

It did not get better after he arrived to the forge. Dior, who was never a nice person in the first place, was being unusually assholish today. Frankly, Tyelpë thought that the customer who made the order they were working on was kind of an asshole as well. Who in their right mind would order  _ fifteen _ identical sets of window grates for their own house? What kind of house had fifteen windows anyway? A First Age castle? A secret party spot of Tulkas the Valiant? A brothel?! Tyelpë’s muscles ached so badly just from moving those grates around...

“Don’t wince like that,” Dior dropped casually and raised eyebrows at him. “You haven’t even begun working today.”

Tyelpë almost dropped the bars when he heard that.  _ What?!  _ That was unbelievably unfair and not nearly true, he’s done most of the work today while Dior kept getting distracted by his phone. But he bit down his lip and tried to acquire a neutral facial expression. Sad eyes fixed on the bars, Tyelpë thought of elaborate rings and unusual bracelets and little figurines, all silver, delicate and beautiful, nothing like those bars. When the apprenticeship was over, he would be working again, and it would be fine despite whatever Dior would say about the quality of his work.

Sighing, Tyelpë began another set of bars. Well, at least it wasn’t one more of those dragons he’d grown to hate so much… He glanced at Dior’s figure - holding the phone again, face concerned - and returned to his work. He was in no position to criticize his mentor, but Dior has been glued to the phone for the past couple of months! Gil joked that the master smith was sexting, but Dior’s face suggested he was more likely to be sending around death threats. 

One more look at the scheme that depicted the their window bars with all the twists. Measuring the finished bars. Cutting off pieces for twists. Praying to Aulë that he doesn’t throw that chunk of iron into Dior’s head. Heating it up. Twisting it with the press. Not thinking about twisting Dior’s neck. Twisting it one more ti…

“Hello, sweet thing of mine?”

Tyelpë blinked in surprise and turned his head to see a newcomer at the door. There was a tall, dark-haired man in high boots and an apron, slightly wet with the rain. His thin lips were curved in a smile, and Tyelpë sensed a bit of warmth in his chest - the stranger was very good-looking.

Dior stirred anxiously and stood up. “Eöl, I asked you to forget your way to this place,” he spoke, his voice irritated. Dior then grabbed a piece of bar defensively, and Tyelpë immediately felt  uneasy. Yet he continued working, not wishing to appear interested in his mentor’s personal affairs.

“I finally decided to return your anvil, babe,” Eöl chuckled. “Goodness, you’re so beautiful when you’re mad at me. I’ve nearly forgotten. You must have missed me, huh? Come here, give me a kiss.”

“You can drop the anvil on your own foot, and no, I have  _ not _ missed you,” Dior replied firmly. “Eöl, please, leave. I told you not to come, and we are not alone here.”

Tyelpë frowned and still continued the twisting. He did not want Eöl’s attention at all; no good could come from a person who would call Dior “babe.”

“Ah!” despite Tyelpë’s efforts, Eöl’s attention did turn to him. “What a handsome boy in this Eru-forsaken workshop! Dee, you got yourself a pretty apprentice to have a little bit of fun?” the man asked, grinning, and spoke to Tyelpe. “Hi, sweetheart. Learning to forge? I could teach you a thing or two… for a price. Surely I’m better than Dior, since I’ve taught him everything.”

It was unclear what exactly Eöl meant by “everything.” Tyelpë felt nothing but disgust.

“Eöl, please,” Dior begged, standing between him and Tyelpë. “He’s much younger than you, and…”

Chuckling, Eöl moved the tall Dior aside easily, as if the latter was made of papier-mâché.

That was  _ enough _ . Face calm, Tyelpë picked up the heated iron bar with tongs and approached the man slowly. “I’ve worked metal more often than you’ve gotten laid. And I will have no sketchy fucker who cannot apply eyeliner despite having two working hands treat me like a fifteen-year-old-boy. Now get the fuck out of here and let me work before I,” he raised the tongs, “shove this up your ass.” 

“Easy, boy,” Eöl took a step back, smiling. “So aggressive, mhm. If you weren’t holding this junk, I’d have grabbed that good hand of yours and bent you over the table to do justice to that lovely ass you have.”

Dior gasped in shock, his face growing pale. “Eöl,  _ that was _ … get out!!”

Tyelpë was blinking rapidly in shock. Memories flooded his mind: spring, his own apartment, front door open, Sauron’s lips on his chest, that feeling of horror sending shivers down his back… And rage arose in his chest. How  _ dare  _ he? Some random stranger, some stupid apron-wearing bonehead thinking he could do whatever he wanted to Tyelpë because of that injury?! Growling with fury, he made a step towards Eöl, and another one, and then everything around him was smoke and flame. 

It took a few moments for him to blink out the smoke, and by then, Eöl was gone, and Dior was holding him, very gently.

“Tyelpë? Are you alright, Tyelpë? Can you hear me?” the master smith kept asking, his face pale and worried.

“Yes,” Tyelpë replied weakly and realized he was no longer holding the tongs. “What happened? Where is he?”

“He fled,” Dior breathed out. “You scared him. I had to take your tongs away, you seemed too... threatening.”

Tyelpë looked down, tired. “I’m sorry. I can’t… What he said was… Someone actually tried to do it to me, and…”

Dior sighed and pulled him closer. “Oh, Tyelpë. He’s done it to me quite a few times.”

“Dear Aulë!” Tyelpë gasped in shock. For a second, he imagined that Gil and Fëanor had not come that morning, and he had been at Sauron’s mercy, injured and helpless. Oh no. Poor Dior! Was there no one to save him?..

* * *

“And then he said, ‘I think I still love him!’ Can you believe?” Tyelpë almost knocked the mug off Gil’s kitchen table as he waved his arm in disturbed excitement.

“Not to be blaming him or anything,” Gil started carefully and sipped his tea, “but, like… why did they live together?”

“Cause Dior lost his hand in an accident, and he had no family, and he didn’t know he could work one-handed, so he depended on Eöl for income.” Tyelpë sighed. “And, I mean, look at me. I can’t even cook myself breakfast, I need someone around. If I didn’t have Fëanor and Nerdanel and Narvi and father and you… Valar, I have so many people, and Dior only had the fucking Eöl, that’s so unfair!”

“Maybe that’s why he’s an asshole,” Gil shrugged.

“Oh no,” Tyelpë raised his eyebrows sadly. “I feel so bad for all these jokes now. Poor Dior, he must be deeply unhappy. How does he live alone? I mean, yes, he pays people to cook him food and clean his house, but still… all alone. That’s so hard!”

“Are  _ you _ fine, though, Tyelpë?” Gil put his mug down and covered Tyelpë’s hand with his. “Do you feel unsafe? Anxious?”

Tyelpë looked down and smiled, blushing for some reason. “I feel very very safe with you, Gil.”

That was true. He felt safe, even safer than earlier. Gil was so kind, so accommodating, so endlessly willing to help, to listen, to talk.  He would never betray Tyelpë. He would never take advantage of someone depending on his help. He was nothing like Eöl. And if Tyelpë… oh Valar, what if Nerdanel had been right, what if Gil was truly in love with him, and…

Tyelpë froze, his eyes open wide, his breath gone. He _ wanted  _ that. He  _ wanted  _ Gil to be in love with him. He wanted that so much. He was not afraid to commit - not to Gil.

“Tyelpë?” Gil called, worried. “What is happening? Are you having a flashback?”

Oh no, he must have made a weird face! No, he could not talk to Gil about that just yet. He did not have the words.

“I… the work was pretty heavy today. My shoulders and back ache.” Well, it was not a lie, after all.

“You need a hot bath,” Gil nodded and stood up, ready to help as ever.

“I don’t want to abuse your hospitality,” Tyelpë said reluctantly. A bath did sound great; he needed hot water to soothe his muscles, right about now. “Besides, I came here to spend time with you, and instead, I would be stuck in the bathroom.”

“I can sit next to you,” Gil suggested with a lovely smile. “On the floor.”

Tyelpë felt his face burn up. Gil being next to him while he’s taking a bath? “Would that be… appropriate?”  _ Oh Gil, I don’t actually mind if it wouldn’t. _

“I have bubbles! You will be covered with them.”

Being covered by nothing but bubbles next to Gil did not sound much more appropriate. “Alright.”

“You finish your tea, and I’ll go run the water,” Gil nodded, looking as happy as Tyelpë, and walked out to prepare the bath.

Wow.  _ Wow.  _ Maybe Nerdanel  _ was _ right after all? Quickly, Tyelpë texted Narvi, “Help, Gil offered me to take a bubble bath at his place!”

A reply came immediately. “Is he going to be in the tub too?”

Tyelpë rolled his eyes. “No, next to it.”

“Then offer him to get into the tub?”

“THAT’S NOT WHAT I’M ASKING NARVI!”

“I don’t really see what you’re asking.”

“Does it mean he likes me???”

Narvi took a little longer answering, and Tyelpë started feeling nervous. Maybe he was being silly. Maybe he was exaggerating. Maybe Gil…

“TYELPË HE’S IN LOVE WITH YOU DUMBASS.”

Breathless, Tyelpë stared into the screen until Gil called him from the bathroom. Sighing, he made his way to the warm, steamy room. His friend stepped out politely to let Tyelpë undress. Tyelpë did so quickly and looked at his reflection in the mirror. The surface was getting clouded with steam, but he could still see that he was fine, much better looking than the starved, dried out creature he saw in the mirror a few months ago. He wondered what Gil would think of him.

Gil. Oh, Gil. It seemed all so sudden, what he felt for his friend, but it was really not. Since a while ago, he’s craved Gil’s touch, he’s longed for Gil’s presence, he’s loved Gil’s soft voice and his kind blue eyes and his gentle hands and… Oh, brilliant, he was hard now. Just perfect.

Grumbling at his impatient body, Tyelpë got into the tub and stopped the water. Well, the bubbles were indeed pretty dense and covered his lower half just fine. He also hid his right arm in the foam; he usually wore long sleeves to cover up the scars, so Gil wouldn’t normally see them. And Tyelpë didn’t want him to.

“Gil, you can come in!” he called, and Gill walked in right away with a cushion that he then threw on the floor to sit next to the tub.

“Hey, Tyelpë,” Gil smiled, looking into his eyes, but his expression changed to a puzzled one as his look went lower. “Wow. Didn’t know your nipples were pierced.”

If Tyelpë’s face and neck were pink from the hot steam, they grew red now. Yes, he wore smaller loops that weren’t necessarily visible through the clothes, but… Gil’s gaze felt almost physical on his nipples, and the feeling was very, very pleasant. Oh, he shouldn’t have agreed to bathe in Gil’s presence!

“Tyelpë, are you fine?”

Oh, that voice… that voice!

“I’m well, Gil,” he whispers, smiling. Sweet Gil, always so worried about him… “Tell me something about yourself. We’ve been discussing my work way too much, how’s yours going?”

Gil moved closer, resting against the tub. “Wonderful. By some incredible luck, which I suspect to be a direct intrusion of Eru, they approved of my Fëanturi design! I guess I can still ask Dior to be Aulë now that he’s not an asshole? Also, I found a sexy young man to be Tulkas.”

Tyelpë giggled.

“Here, let me show you.” Gil pulled out his phone and quickly found the picture. He leaned in towards Tyelpë to show him a shredded blonde guy with a broad smile. The man wasn’t wearing much, standing next to a pool with a towel thrown over his shoulder. “How’s he?”

“Not my type,” Tyelpë shook his head.

“What’s your type?” Gil asked, smiling teasingly. “Don’t like blondes?”

“I prefer dark hair,” Tyelpë nodded.

“And what about the eyes? His are brown.”

“I like blue.” Tyelpë felt his face grow hot.

“What else do you like, Tyelpë?” Gil asked in a quieter voice, still smiling, as he moved even closer, risking to fall into the tub.

Tyelpë blushed deeper as Gil’s breath tickled his lips. “Artists,” he replied, barely audible. Well, that was generally true.

“I like silversmiths,” Gil whispered, seconds before he covered Tyelpë’s lips with his.

Tyelpë gasped; he had to lift himself up a bit to wrap his arms around Gil’s neck. Gil held him close, probably worried he would slip and hurt himself. Tyelpë wanted to sing, wanted to tell Gil how welcome his lips were, how happy that tight embrace made him, how much he loved, loved, loved every part of Gil, his warmth, his soft voice, his constant care, everything, but all he could do was sigh into Gil’s mouth, and he was content with that.

The kiss was so long Tyelpë forgot there was anything worth attention in the world besides sucking on Gil’s lips and feeling his tongue and accepting his gentle bites. After a while, Gil broke away, giving him a peck on the nose as a consolation prize.

“Oh, Gil,” Tyelpë gasped, smiling shyly.

“Are you well, darling?” Gil asked, concerned. He cupped Tyelpë’s face with those delightfully cool hands, and Tyelpë closed his eyes as if he has just been delivered to ultimate safety.

“I’ve never been better,” he stroked Gil’s hand to show just how good things were.

Gil fell silent for a few moments; his voice was hoarse when, at last, he spoke. “I… love you, Tyelp.”

Tyelpë opened his eyes with another gasp.

“Please, you don’t have to say anything,” Gil pleaded, his face displaying some lovely begging expression that Tyelpë has never seen before. “You don’t have to reciprocate. As long as you let me hold you… or, no, just let me talk to you. Let me see you. Please, don’t go, I promise I won’t kiss you again if you don’t want, Tyelpë, you don’t owe me anything, I just…”

“Gil,” Tyelpë interrupted gently, taking his hand. Poor Gil, so distressed, so worried! He must think himself some kind of Eöl. That’s not right.

“Yes, Tyelpë?”

There was silence. Tyelpë smiled, pulling Gil by the hand.

“Get into the tub, silly.”

Breathless, Gill threw his phone away and flung himself over the rim of the tub, right on top of Tyelpë, still wearing his sweatpants and a purple t-shirt.

Tyelpë laughed so loudly the neighbors probably considered calling the police. “You beautiful idiot,” he giggled, wrapping his left arm around Gil’s waist as Gil’s clothes soaked with water, “this was supposed to be hot, you were supposed to  _ undress, _ Eru damn it I can’t believe how dumb you are, I’ll tell this story to our children!”

“Our children?” Gil gasped happily and pressed his hot lips to Tyelpë’s.

Tyelpë continued giggling into his mouth until Gil tugged gently at a silver loop in Tyelpë’s nipple.

“Ah, Gil! Goodness…” Tyelpë moaned, and Gil continued kissing him, his lips, his ears, his neck as Tyelpë squirmed under him, laughter forgotten. 

The tub was so, so inconvenient, Tyelpë couldn’t caress Gil as much as he wanted to; and so they stood up, and unplugged the tub, and ran the shower. Gil finally undressed, and Tyelpë got to see and touch and admire him (and there was a lot to admire). There was no anxiety or self-doubt when they kissed tenderly under warm water, gentle hands stroking hips or backs.

“I’m tired,” Tyelpë finally confessed after five minutes of continuous kisses.

“Oh Valar, I am so sorry,” Gil said, “I completely forgot you worked today!”

“I don’t blame you for forgetting things,” Tyelpë smiled tenderly. “I barely remembered my own name when you… Oh, Gil.”

Gil blew him a kiss as he dried himself with a towel. Tyelpë needed not bother with drying, as he had his friend (boyfriend?) to do it for him. Actually, he did not walk to the bedroom either, being carried bridal style (and giggling non-stop during that).

* * *

“Oh, wow,” said a tall red-haired man, forgetting to close his fridge as he listened to the sounds people were making in the neighboring apartment. “I thought Ereinion was asexual.”

“Oh no, he was just a loser,” a dark-haired man replied, lifting his head up from a songbook. “I’m going to write him a ballad to congratulate him on getting laid!”

“MFS, you’re so rude, Maglor,” the redhead frowned. “They’re not even being that loud.”

“Well, you surely are louder when you bring Fingon over, but…”

“Please, shut up.”

* * *

“Tyelpë, shall I stop? You sound hurt, darling…”

“Gil, I will be even more hurt if you don’t break those knots. Please. I have work tomorrow, and my neck is a big tense lump.”

“Alright, love. Just please don’t be so loud, it bothers me a little. I want you to scream for a different reason.”

“Ah, Gil! you’re going to make me scream?”

“Yes, yes, many times… So many times.”


End file.
